Sweep

We waited for rain all the see-sawing day. The curse of click-baity meteorology sites tantalising us with their comparative takes: lightening shaking the rafters in La Spezia; thunderbolts clattering around the Campo at Siena ( causing the Palio to be rainchecked) and torrential rain in Florence ( if we give credence to the radar). Eventually some tired old storm rocked across the Pratomagno from Regello (prickling with lightning symbols) and the great weather god bestowed on us but 3 millimetres of precious aqua. Dio buono.

THREE MILLIMETRES

As if we have not suffered enough. Porca Madonna.

But the broken cold front of the cut-off low pressure fed by cold air from above has reduced the bake heat, notched the oven down, and given us ( creature, beast and hobbling humans) the semblance and faltering, unbelieving, reality of relief. Respite. Truce. Tregua.

Tonight it was dark by 21:00 as the hunter/ harvest/bomber/blue/orange moon came up. We’ve got viewing on/of/in the house next week.